The Weight (39 page)

“He’s … dead? You’re sure?”

“Which one?”

“Oh. Jessop, I guess.”

“You
guess?
Jesus.”

“Sugar, please, stop. You’re thinking, ‘That’s the one she cared about,’ aren’t you?”

“What if I was?”

“And that makes you mad?”

I didn’t say anything.

She unbuckled her seatbelt, turned so she was kneeling on the cushion, and leaned over. To kiss me on the side of my face.

“Don’t be mad, Sugar. You’d be mad for all the wrong reasons.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, you do. You think I still have feelings for Jessop, don’t you?”

“I don’t know who you’ve got—”

“Stop! I had feelings for Jessop, all right. I was
terrified
of him. When Albie died, the first thing that hit me was, Jessop’s going to come for me now. I think that’s why Albie kept him on. Working, I mean. So that when he … when he
died
—okay?—
I’d
know where to find him. Jessop. And kill him, like I should have done.

“That’s what I was so upset about before. I shouldn’t have been hiding under those coats, trembling, trying not to whimper. I shouldn’t have been hiding from him; I should have been hunting him.

“It wasn’t that I didn’t have confidence in you. Not for a minute. I knew Jessop was as good as dead from the minute you … took over. I was … ashamed, okay? I put up this big front, but it was all a lie. I
wanted
you to do it, Sugar.

“You know what I did, under those coats? Sucked my thumb. Like a baby. You think I didn’t believe you could take care of things, but the truth is, I knew you could. And the worse truth is, I knew I couldn’t.”

“All you can ever say is you
thought
you couldn’t. You’ll never have the chance to find out now. He’s not coming back.”

“I love you,” is what she said.

It was around four in the afternoon when I finally woke up. Lynda was still next to me.

“About time,” she said. So I knew she must have been awake for a while.

“You been watching the news?”

“Yes. Not a word.”

“There’s gonna be.”

“That depends,” she said.

“On what?”

“Tactics.”

“You’re giving me a headache.”

“Then go take a shower and I’ll get you something to eat.”

“They may never find that motorcycle,” she said, watching me as I ate. “Who’s going to report it missing? So why would they be looking for it at all, much less on the property?”

I shrugged my shoulders, chewing slow, like you’re supposed to.

“That skinhead, him they’ll find. But so what? People like that, they get killed every day. For all kinds of reasons. By all kinds of people.”

I nodded. They’re always talking about wiping out every mud on the planet, but they spend more time on killing each other. Saw
it plenty of times in prison. Sometimes it’s because they find out something about the guy, like he’s got the wrong blood in him. Or sometimes it’s just to be doing it.

“And Jessop?” Lynda said. “Ex-con found dead in the trunk of a car he stole in Miami, with a pistol in his belt. Who knows what
that’s
about? The gun won’t be registered. All they’ll ever be able to do is trace the car and find out the owner’s a person who doesn’t exist, a man who lives at an address in a neighborhood where nobody knows nothing. And they won’t be lying about that, either.”

“Your prints are in the—”

“In the Lincoln? Sure, baby. But not in the system. Without a match, they hit a wall. And I had the car detailed after that first time you used it.”

The way Lynda ran it down, I sounded like a criminal mastermind. But I knew better.

“Traces of me could be in that car, too, girl. Maybe not prints, but
some
kind of DNA. That’s all they’ll need, if they decide to go that route.”

“What good would DNA do them?”

“If you’re a convicted sex offender, they take a DNA sample from you. And there’s a national database.”

“How could
you
be a—?”

That’s when I told her how me getting railroaded had started this whole thing.

I don’t remember what I said. I don’t even remember when I finished. All I remember is Lynda holding me before … I guess I don’t even know before
what
, but when I woke up, the side of my face was against her chest, and my arm was all the way across her body. She’d probably fallen asleep when she realized she couldn’t get out from under all my weight.

For a minute, I thought I was losing it: every word made me think of another word, like this … chain, or something.

Weight. I
did
take the weight.

Wait. I
had
waited, just like the rules say.

I got my money from Solly. I made sure Jessop was never going to roll on anyone, ever. Just like Solly wanted.

Solly couldn’t do time, not at his age. But that book. That’s what Solly
really
wanted, wasn’t it? And I had that book now.

Solly couldn’t do time, and I had the book … so everything was back where it was supposed to be. All I had to do was go back, give Solly everything he wanted: the book and the news about Jessop. Lynda, she’d go … wherever she wanted, I guessed.

What I really wanted was for her to go with me. But where was I going? Where the
fuck
was I going?

I had to see Solly. Albie had it right. Solly was a traitor. And not just to whatever those hard men were doing. He sent me down to Florida to tie up a loose end. That was a lie. But now I had a loose end of my own. As long as Solly was alive, I’d never be safe.

I couldn’t bring Lynda with me for what I had to do.

Big Matt, he got himself out. But he knows how to do legit things. The only things I know how to do, I could only do until I got caught doing them.

I couldn’t bring Lynda to Solly, and I couldn’t take her to prison with me, either.

“Sugar?”

“I didn’t know you were awake.”

“My … head is awake. But I can’t move my arm.”

“It’s just cramped, girl. You’re not built to have that much weight on you. I can put the … feeling back in it pretty quick, but that would hurt. Could you just, like, lay there for a couple of hours? With the weight off, your arm’ll come—”

She looked like a little girl trying to be tough. “I’d like to do that,” she said. “But I have to … use the bathroom, okay?”

Before she could say anything to stop me, I scooped her up and carried her into the bathroom. I put her down there, but I held on. Good thing—she couldn’t stand on her own. I pulled off her underpants with one hand, put her on the toilet.

She looked pretty steady. Her right arm was working, and she braced herself with it.

“I’ll be close enough to hear you,” I told her. Then I backed out of the bathroom without closing the door. I moved a few steps away.

When I heard the toilet flush, I went to her. But she was already sort of standing against the sink, holding herself with that one good hand and arm.

I stepped behind her. “I’ve got you, Lynda.” I turned on the water. It heated up quick, so I dialed it back. Then I held her at the waist. “Use your good hand to wash the other one.”

When she was finished, I put her on the couch so her arm was stretched out along the top.

“Wet heat, that’s best. You stay there.”

“Okay, boss,” she said. Smiling.

I felt good, too. Doing something I knew something about. I put a whole layer of dry towels under her arm, then one of the steaming-hot ones over it. Then I put some dry ones over everything, to keep the heat in.

“How long will it take?”

“Can you feel anything?”

“Not … not really.”

“When you start to feel something … the towels are too hot, or even if they’re all cold, as soon as you can feel them, it won’t be long after that.”

“Could I have a—?”

I was already there before she finished. She held the lit cigarette in her good hand, and took a deep puff like it was a painkiller.

“You should put something in your stomach, Lynda.”

“Don’t be such a big nag.”

All of a sudden, her face changed. “I was just teasing you, Sugar. Soon as I’m done with this, I’ll have soup, okay? Just take one of the cans from the—”

“I know how to make soup.”

“Stop pouting, you big baby.” The way she said it, it felt like a kiss.

By the time she got back to herself, it was dark out. I had made myself some soup, too. Then I found enough ways to get a decent workout. Made me feel better. But not that much.

I took a quick shower. When I came out, she was on the couch. “I don’t know what to do,” I told her.

“We’ve got to make a decision, Sugar.”

My mouth got all dry. “We.” Was that, we
each
had to make a decision, or we had to make one together?

“How many sets of clean ID do you have?” she asked me.

“Besides my own?”

“You have real—?”

“What I mean, I
am
Tim NMI Caine, for real.”

“NMI?”

“No middle initial. That’s what it says on my record. Timothy NMI Caine, a.k.a. Sugar.”

“Not counting that one.”